


Adaptation

by Awilding



Series: Primal Instincts [3]
Category: Alien Quadrilogy (Movies), Alien Series
Genre: Alien 3 (1992) Never Happened, Amputation, Angst, Drama, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Gateway Station, Grief/Mourning, Hudson and Vasquez Live, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Loss, Love, Medical Procedures, Not game over, Past Relationship(s), Protective Siblings, Recovery, Romance, Science Fiction, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:54:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27059062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Awilding/pseuds/Awilding
Summary: Days after returning from their catastrophic mission, Vasquez and Hudson opt to stay aboard Gateway Station as the others leave for Earth. When Vasquez is subject to a life-changing event, she and Hudson grapple with new challenges and adjust to the reality of being more than friends.
Relationships: Cynthia Dietrich/William Hudson, Dwayne Hicks/Ellen Ripley, Mark Drake/Jenette Vasquez, William Hudson/Jenette Vazquez, William Hudson/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Primal Instincts [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2081802
Comments: 27
Kudos: 21





	1. Nocturnal Behaviour

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third installment in a series of three stories, so there may be references made to past events taken from the previous two stories, ‘Survival’ and ‘Captivity.’ <\- So give these two a read if you're interested, but if not, I think you should still be able to get the gist of it!
> 
> Thanks for reading and hope you enjoy!

The time on the bedroom clock read 02:35, but Vasquez and Hudson were still awake.

Vasquez was in Hudson’s bed, in his room in the quarantine unit of Gateway Station. She was on top of him, heat rising between them as their skin connected, his hands at her hips, moving as she moved. 

She liked the feeling of having his hands on her and Hudson now held her tightly as though at any moment she might just slip away. He looked at her as if she might.

He seemed a bit lost as he stared up at her, his gaze sweeping her face, a slight depression of his eyebrows, disbelieving or wary. But when she nudged him lightly and gave a quick laugh, his expression brightened, the distant look dissolving into presence and a smile working its way onto one side of his mouth.

She liked that he knew what he was doing. How he continued to surprise her with his tenacity and attentiveness, only ever needing the slightest bit of encouragement.

She liked the sound of his voice: a low hum when he spoke to her quietly, something funny or sweet. 

She liked that his eyes were still so blue, even in the dimly lit room.

While she hadn’t yet told him outright, the truth was that she liked a lot of things about him. Perhaps there had always been a part of her that had. Hudson could be cocky and immature and annoying as hell, but there was another side of him that, over time, had drawn her in—the endearing brand of charm and charisma and a vulnerability that he tried his best to disguise. The resourceful, sharp-minded marine that she trusted with her life.

But after they both narrowly escaped death on LV-426, something had changed and Vasquez could no longer ignore that she felt something for her fellow teammate and squad leader. 

Three days earlier, they had woken up from cryo at Gateway Station and were immediately subjected to the confines of quarantine along with Hicks, Ripley and Newt. It had ultimately brought all of them closer. But for her and Hudson, it had also been three confusing days of fucking, fighting and taking care of one another.

She knew she had come away from that mission a different person. She was damaged, grieving the loss of Drake and so many of her teammates. And in the back of her mind was the nagging feeling that this _thing_ between her and Hudson was only happening because they were both broken, alone and available. They were playing with fire, her mind told her, and this wouldn’t end well for either of them. 

But for now, she disregarded the infringing thoughts, surrendering to the magnetism between them. It was the same impulsive attraction that crept up inside of her lately whenever he was around, the temptation to rip off his clothes, push him onto whatever surface was closest and take advantage of his abundant energy and eagerness to please. 

Now, as she arched her back, Hudson’s hands glided over the curves of her body, but generally stayed in the vicinity of her sides, playing it safe. They were no stranger to each other’s bodies at this point, having spent a good portion of the last few days and nights in bed together, so she thought it was funny how he still seemed a bit tentative, as if still afraid he might cross a line. 

Vasquez took Hudson’s hands from her hips and placed them on her chest, being gentle with his broken wrist, which was still bound in a cast. He gave a satisfied sigh and gazed back at her lustfully, her breasts in his hands. 

But after a moment, his hands moved to the small of her back to draw her closer, and their stomachs pressed together, the sensation engaging a profusion of nerve endings. 

When her head involuntarily dropped, his cheek pushed against hers affectionately, warm lips and rough facial hair gliding along her neck, causing pleasant shivers to spread across the entire surface area of her skin. He kissed along her jaw and beneath her ear and everywhere, it seemed, except her lips, waiting for her to be the one to initiate a kiss that was deep and passionate. And when she did, she closed her eyes as their mouths connected and it felt like they were breathing life into one another. 

Her forearms were pressed to the bed on either side of him, supporting her upper body, when Hudson slid his hands up her arms, gently pulling them away so that she was left lying against his chest. Wordlessly, she snaked her arms between the pillow and the hot skin of his back, curling them around his shoulders, her head nestled into his neck as he continued to move with her, holding her tightly. Never before had she felt so close to him. 

.

Vasquez was still lying on his chest as they caught their breath and indulged in the warm feelings of contentment. She could feel his heart beating fast, spasms of residual pleasure still pulsating through him, the feeling transferring to her through their still connected bodies. Carefully, she moved off of him to lie at his side, not certain how much her weight on top of him aggravated the injuries he was still recovering from: the fractured ribs, lacerations on his stomach and thigh. 

He looked at her and she knew what he was about to say. She too, had not been able to escape the mission unscathed, and she was feeling the effects of it now.

“Are you—”

“I’m fine,” she said, automatically answering the question she knew he was going to ask. She was getting more used to his concern, variations of the question always seeming to be at the forefront of his mind as he embraced the unsolicited role of looking after her. She hadn’t asked for his help or attention, but she realized that if she wanted to be with him in any regard, then it came with the package.

When his brows raised a bit, disbelievingly, she rolled her eyes. 

“Might just take another one so I can sleep through the night,” she responded and he nodded. He reached for a bottle of painkillers on the bedside table and opened it, passing her a half-full glass of water, two orange pills on his open palm. 

She took one of the pills, but when his hand remained open in front of her, she took the second as well. 

They laid in silence and a heavy feeling of stress fell over Vasquez.

“You thinkin’ about tomorrow?” he asked her.

“A bit,” she replied. It was a stupid response: she was either thinking about it or she wasn’t. Right now she was, the idea of what was to come creating an uncomfortable drop in her stomach. 

Tomorrow afternoon she was scheduled for surgery to have her right leg amputated below the knee. Although every part of her knew she had chosen the better of two undesirable options, she still worried that she had made a mistake.

Hudson had insisted on staying with her at Gateway Station as she recovered after the operation. She felt relieved that he was going to stay with her, but also felt a bit anxious about how it was going to work between them.

“You nervous?” Hudson asked her softly. 

She paused and this time chose to answer him honestly. “Yeah. I am. For some reason I didn’t think I would be... I just wish…” she trailed off and Hudson stayed silent watching her intently, however she didn’t really even know what she was going to say. 

“Come here,” he said once it became clear she wasn’t going to finish her train of thought, and he pulled her in closer and cradled her head in his arm. Gestures like that still felt surreal to her, but they also felt like a welcome change from their recent hardships. She wondered if the traumas they had experienced lately had made her soft. 

“Everything’ll be fine,” Hudson told her comfortingly. “We’re gonna get through this together, okay? You and me, tackling it head on, just like any other challenge we’ve had to face.” He found her hand and held it, as if making a pact. “We’re still partners, and we’re going to make it out the other side of this just like we always do.”

She nodded against him. 

.

It felt like she had her eyes closed for mere seconds when Hudson was already waking her. The painkillers were strong and made her feel exceptionally tired but never fully rested, no matter how long she slept.

“Mornin’, sunshine.” 

Vasquez rubbed her eyes, “What time is it?” The familiar pain was already starting to throb in her right leg.

“Eight,” replied Hudson.

Vasquez’s surgery was scheduled for 3pm and she got a pang of nervousness just thinking about it. She nodded, trying to ignore the nerves and she sat up. 

“You look exhausted,” said Hudson unhappily. “Why don’t you try to get some more sleep? You don’t have to come, Hicks and I can manage it on our own. I’ll pack up all of your stuff… and Drake’s.”

Vasquez shook her head. “No, I’m fine. I’m going.” 

They had agreed to meet Company staff that morning aboard the Sulaco, the starship they had previously called home, which now sat docked and deserted in the quarantine port of Gateway Station. With so many members of their crew tragically killed on LV-426, it had been left to her, Hudson and Hicks—the three surviving members of Second Battalion Bravo Team—to assist staff in sorting through everyone’s belongings so the items could be packaged and sent home to their friends’ grieving families. She knew it was going to be emotionally brutal, but it felt far too important to just sleep through. 

“I need to do this, Hudson,” she said as she tossed off the warm covers and willed her aching legs to the floor, ignoring the look of concern that Hudson wore on his face. 

.

The Sulaco looked different when it was powered down. Auxiliary power only lit the spaces they were walking through, giving off an eerie feeling of being on an illuminated stage set while everything else was still obscured in shadow. Stranger still was the fact that Company staff now led them through the ship towards the locker rooms, as if they didn’t know where they were going, hadn’t spent the past five years building friendships and growing older there, moving about the halls everyday like blood through an artery, bringing life and vitality to the otherwise stark setting. 

And truly, the ship seemed dead now, smelling of hydrogen peroxide, sodium hypochlorite, instead of that of everyday living, the essence of food and laundry and stale athletic wear all but scrubbed into oblivion. And as they walked into the locker room, there were no sounds of their teammates’ laughter or rapidfire insults, no voice of Sergeant Apone barking orders past the smouldering cigar he held between his teeth. Now, in the place that had been the heart of the Sulaco, only silence remained—and the three of them, standing within the ship’s corpse with a bunch of Company employees that now determined its fate. 

Vasquez wondered how long it would sit docked without use. And when it was assigned a new crew, would they tell stories of the team before them, nearly all wiped out within the course of one day? 

Inadvertently, the three of them had become that of history and myth, the only marines to survive one of the most catastrophic missions to rock the United States Colonial Marine Corps in recent history. 

“Seems different, doesn’t it?” said Hicks, confirming Vasquez’s thoughts. He looked at Vasquez and Hudson, only one of his eyes visible as the other lay hidden beneath a bandage that covered burns to his left eye and cheek and continued down the side of his neck and shoulder. “You guys ready to do this?” he uttered in a voice so low that Vasquez could only just make out the words, standing next to him, balanced on her crutches. 

“Fuck no,” said Hudson on the other side of her. His face looked stricken and Vasquez shifted her weight onto just one crutch so she could place her hand on his back. His arm automatically went around her shoulders to reciprocate, but his expression remained unchanged, just staring at the rows of open lockers.

Hicks’ arm fell on top of Hudson’s and the three of them stood together for a moment, bound in solidarity as they breathed in silence.

Then, wordlessly, they separated again and moved forward to begin their work.


	2. Extinction and Migration

For the first ten years of his life, Hudson had a relatively normal childhood for a kid growing up in one of the poorest neighbourhoods of Fort Worth. From a young age, he knew that his family was struggling financially, that his father was an asshole and his mother was gentle and loved her children, but was not without her flaws. He was aware that both of his parents battled addictions, had seen them using, and knew not to touch the syringes or anything else they occasionally left on the living room table. 

Still, Hudson’s memories of childhood were not all bad. He remembered his mother’s patience, how she wouldn’t get mad at him when he would ask a hundred questions, or would habitually take apart anything that had a circuit board or moving parts, just to see how they worked. Even at the time, Hudson knew that his high energy and curiosity made him an especially hard kid to handle, but his mother seemed proud of him and he remembered how she would sometimes bring home second-hand tools and bits of obsolete electronics for him and he would sit for hours dismantling parts and combining the working pieces.

After his mother died, things got significantly harder. It was around that time, living under his father’s roof, that his stomach aches began. 

Hudson had one now as they shuffled into the locker room of the deserted Sulaco. He assumed it was because of all of the things he was feeling in that moment: the sadness and stress and fear, the heaviness of the day manifesting into the same internal discomfort and nausea he used to get as a kid.

He eyed up the stacked bins filled with their fallen comrades’ belongings. Lockers had never been formally assigned, so part of the reason they were there was to identify which items belonged to which of their lost friends. Everything had been pulled from lockers, chucked into bins and sterilized by quarantine workers—maybe steamed or doused with chemicals—many items still damp to the touch, photographs and posters rippled from moisture. And while it was apparent that some effort had been made to keep everyone’s belongings separate, it made Hudson angry that everything had been treated with such little respect, jumbled up in each bin, every item retaining the scent of an indoor swimming pool. 

Larger bins also sat stacked around the room, holding the contents from the ship’s sleeping quarters, and he guessed that those items were also reeking of over-sterilization. At least those bins had been labelled with a room number. 

“Goddammit.” 

He turned to see Vasquez shifting through a collection of things he knew to be hers, pulling out a pair of damp cargo pants and checking the pockets with apprehension. 

He knew what she was looking for, but not what it was; he had seen her place the folded note in the pocket for safekeeping before they had gone into cryo. She slumped on her crutches as she pulled out a soggy white square of paper that was blurred with ink and stared at it. Although her expression changed very little, there was a subtle movement of her brows, a tension in her jaw, which Hudson could only interpret as some combination of sadness and anger. 

Hudson glanced down at one of the messy bins and a snort of frustration left his nostrils as he noticed a pair of Ferro’s aviator sunglasses. “Like, are you fuckin’ kidding me?!” he said in disbelief as he held up the glasses so the others could see that they had been bent from rough treatment. The former dropship pilot’s trademark accessory, mangled due to Company negligence. 

Hicks looked at the glasses and sighed. “Okay guys,” he said, standing up a bit straighter. “Obviously this is a shit situation, but we got a job to do and not a lot of time to do it. These boxes are going home to our friends’ families, so let’s sort through and pack ‘em up nice. Anything that we don’t want the grieving folks back home to see”—and he demonstrated by taking the deformed sunglasses and placing them in an empty bin—“goes in here.” 

It seemed to be an unspoken understanding among the three of them that they would treat this as something of a final mission because when the Company staff left them in the locker room, they all worked in silence.

As Hudson dutifully began sorting, nothing felt easy. Even as he pulled out his teammates’ pin-up posters to put into the ‘no-go’ box, the images of boobs and butts didn’t seem to have the same cheerful effect on him that they usually would. 

Hudson’s stomach churned in protest as he systematically repacked a bin of items and labelled it with the name, ‘Ricco Frost’. Frost had been his first friend on the job, having spent a couple of their earlier missions roomed together. Frost was someone he could joke around with, but also talk about the things that were more serious. Two years earlier, when Hudson’s fiancé, Louise, died suddenly of a heart condition, Frost was one of the few people he actually told and talked to about it.

Now, Hudson picked up a small stack of damp photos of Frost and his longtime girlfriend, Heather. He quickly flipped past the one of just Heather, knowing better than to gawk at his friend’s girl in lingerie, but he paused at a photo the couple had taken of themselves, both mid-laugh like they had intended to take a serious one, but couldn’t quite hold it together. They looked truly happy and the injustice of the current reality was staggering. 

“He said he had a bad feeling,” Hudson voiced aloud and Hicks and Vasquez looked up at him. “That morning on the dropship, Frost… he said he had a bad feeling about the drop.” 

“He always said that,” replied Vasquez.

“I know… but still…”

Hicks just gave an acknowledging nod and mouthed an inaudible, ‘yep,’ before returning to his work. Hudson knew it was brutally painful for all of them. 

Across from him, Vasquez sat on the floor, sorting through the bin of Drake’s belongings. He could see Drake’s chicken bone necklace sticking out from the mix. While her face appeared stoic, he knew how much she was struggling inside. 

Briefly, he imagined what it might feel like if he had to go through Vasquez’s belongings right now; how it would feel if he had lost her too. He knew how close he had come to that being a reality. And they still weren’t out of the woods yet. He worried about her surgery, what was about to happen to her and the more he thought about it, the more his nausea intensified. 

Hudson moved onto the next bin. Dietrich’s personal effects. 

He took extra care folding each garment of hers, one at a time returning them back to the box. There was nothing belonging to the former field medic that needed to be censored. No centerfold of an oiled-up construction worker in nothing but steel-toed boots and a hard hat, like the one from Ferro’s locker. Just a picture of her old dog, a collie named Riley with a blue bandana around its neck; a photograph of her and her family on their property in Connecticut, her smiling face next to her parents, her brother with his wife and their two small children. 

And when he opened up one of her hardcover novels to dry out the damp, wavy pages, something light fluttered out and he picked up the delicate item from off the floor.

A dried flower, pressed. He remembered picking it for her on Gliese 667 Cc, back when they were casually sleeping together. It was at the end of a long day of surveillance work that he had spotted the hedge of turquoise flowers on his way back to the airbase, the colour of the thing unlike any plant he had seen on Earth, or any other planet for that matter. So he discretely picked a small bud, slipped it into his pocket, and for the next two days, he kept the short stem in a cup of water in his room. When it bloomed into a delicate ruffle of turquoise, he knocked on Dietrich’s door and watched her face light up when he handed it to her. 

An image of Dietrich’s smiling face flashed through his mind. But then, just as quickly, came the memory of her with the spider-like facehugger covering her face with its sickly grey appendages. 

“Uugh.” Instantly, Hudson was sitting down on one of the benches and he leaned forward, his head in his hands, his level of nausea just about reaching its tipping point.

“What is it?” he heard Vasquez ask and he knew she was looking up at him from the floor. He couldn't look back at her. He was still worrying about her surgery and he was afraid that if he looked up and pictured her lying on the operating table, that he would get sick. 

“Just everything,” he groaned and the back of his hand came to his mouth, even the barest thought of her upcoming procedure sending a reflux of stomach acids backtracking up his esophagus. He shut his eyes, trying to subdue the visceral reaction. 

Hicks sighed. “Just breathe, buddy,” he said, sounding tired.

Vasquez seemed less patient. “Come on Hudson, let’s get this done,” she said and it was the voice she used when she was irritated. He opened his eyes and looked at her, but she avoided his gaze, continuing to fold a pair of Drake’s track pants until she eventually looked up with an impatient shrug. “What?”

Hudson shook his head to say, ‘nothing’. He turned away and he knew he had been put in his place. Leaning into the bench, he still felt like he might be sick, but was now feeling more embarrassed than anything else. 

He had gotten the message. Everyone was hurting. Everyone was feeling like shit. They were sucking it up and he wasn’t. 

Avoiding eye contact with both of his fellow marines, Hudson grimaced and stood. He regained his focus on what he had been doing, placing two of Dietrich’s items into the box he was packing.

Then he promptly turned and vomited into one of the empty lockers. 

No one said a word as Hudson finished retching, swore as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and then shut the locker door and locked it. 

Hicks shook his head, unable to hold back his laughter.

“Jesus Christ, Hudson.”

.

By the time they had placed a lid on the final bin, it was already noon and the realization sent an uncomfortable jolt through Hudson’s already sensitive stomach. Hicks, Ripley and Newt were meant to leave on a shuttle for Earth in less than an hour.

“Fuck, man, you ain’t got much time,” he said to Hicks.

“I know, I should really get back.”

“No need, we came to you!” called Ripley’s voice as she walked into the locker room with Newt, the two of them accompanied by a security officer. Ripley turned to the officer and gave him a side glance. “Thanks for the assistance,” she said and Hudson could pick up on her sarcasm and the officer stepped away. “It’s like they think we’re going to hijack the ship or something,” she said to the rest of them.

Hicks moved in with a grin, took Ripley’s chin in his hand and kissed her softly on the lips. “Well, maybe we should,” he offered and she smiled as he gazed at her. 

Vasquez exchanged a look with Hudson from the floor; a subtle gesture in response to their friends’ display of affection. Hudson reached down and helped her to her feet.

Ripley parted from Hicks. “You guys get all the lockers sorted out?” 

“For the most part,” Hicks gave a laugh. “Don’t open locker number 12.”

Hudson made a face, feeling sheepish. 

Vasquez was still hanging onto Hudson for balance as he helped her back onto her crutches. It was one of those strange moments when they were physically close, yet in reality, he felt so far away from her in every other way. It was like their interactions were a constant ebb and flow, the intimate moments of connection drawing him in deeper, making it increasingly harder when she retreated again, cold and distant. 

When she seemed steady on her crutches, they let go of one another and she looked at him with her dark eyes and it looked like she was about to say something, when Newt’s small voice spoke first. 

“Ripley says you’re not going with us.” 

Hudson looked down at Newt’s sad face. “Yeah. I’m sorry, Scout,” he replied. “Vaz and I have some things we still need to do here. But, I promise you that we’ll stay friends and see each other again.”

“When?” Newt raised her shoulders as she asked the question and she looked so sad that it nearly broke his heart. 

“Um.” Hudson thought hard, trying to determine an answer to the girl’s question, but the truth was that he had no idea. He was staying there to be with Vasquez, to help her as she recovered from her surgery. He had no real concept of how long it was going to be for, whether she would entertain the idea of him staying with her during her entire rehabilitation or whether he would be heading back to Earth sooner than anticipated, dejected and alone. Instinctively, he looked at Vasquez, but she had already turned, as if sensing how the question implicated her.

“Time to go, kiddo,” Hicks said to Newt, allowing the question to go unanswered. Hicks picked up the two duffel bags he had filled of his and Ripley’s belongings from their rooms and lockers and passed one of them to Ripley. The other, he slung over his shoulder, wincing a bit as he did so. He turned to Hudson and Vasquez. “Well guys, I guess this is where we say our goodbyes.” 

Hudson’s heart was heavy in his chest as he hugged Ripley and then Hicks, giving his friend a couple light thumps on the back. 

“Good luck with everything, Vaz,” Ripley said as she embraced Vasquez. “You’re strong. And you’re in good hands,” she added with a look at Hudson. 

Newt’s eyes began to fill with tears as Hudson knelt down in front of her. 

“Aw, come on Scout, don’t,” he said, the sight of her making it impossible for tears not to come to his own eyes. He wiped his face with his hand. “Remember this?” he said to her, and he held out the cast on his arm where she had drawn a series of pictures on the hard plaster, entirely in black marker for lack of other art supplies in their quarantine quarters. 

He pointed to the one she had drawn of the five of them under a cloudy sky with a sun added in as an afterthought. At the time, he had suggested she add in the sun to show that the five of them were on Earth together. “See?” he prompted, “that’s all of us together. We’ll meet you there one day.” 

Newt nodded but gave a little sob as she went in for a hug and Hudson gave her a squeeze. He stood and held his fist out to her.

She bumped it, wiped her tears and turned to Vasquez, her small fist ready.

“Stay cool, kid,” said Vasquez, returning the gesture and Newt gave a determined nod.

“Good luck, guys.”

“Adios amigos.”

Hicks and Ripley each held a hand of Newt’s as they walked away; a perfect vignette of a nuclear family, Newt’s innocent face looking back only once before the three of them departed the docked Sulaco.

.

Hudson and Vasquez walked in silence as they headed back to the living quarters of the quarantine unit. They both carried their standard issue duffel bag of belongings, Hudson with the bin of the eclectic mix of items they had self-determined to be their friends’ contraband. On top of her own duffel, Vasquez carried a bag of Drake’s belongings as well and she was struggling now, the bag repeatedly sliding off her shoulder and knocking against her crutches. 

She stopped to reposition the bags and Hudson took hold of one of them, winding the strap around his cast so that the weight of the bag was no longer on her shoulder.

“I can carry it,” she said, “it’s just awkward walking with these damn things.” 

“It’s fine. I got it,” he said and she reluctantly let him sling it over his own shoulder, adding it to the other bag on his back.

In his peripheral vision, Hudson could see Vasquez looking over at him a few times before she spoke. 

“I didn’t know you were actually feeling sick earlier,” she said as she moved on her crutches beside him. “I just thought you were being, you know, _over the top_.”

Hudson shrugged, pretending like he had already brushed it off. “I know.” 

But Vasquez reached out and held his arm to put a halt to him walking any farther. They both stopped together in the middle of the hallway and the box was heavy in his hands as a couple bottles of cheap whiskey rolled around at the bottom. 

“Hudson, I don’t know if this is a good idea,” she stated. “It’s not too late for you to take the shuttle with those guys... I…I think that you should.”

He shook his head. “I’m not leaving you here alone. I thought we talked about this already.”

She looked at him and her mind seemed divided, uncertain of what to say. 

“Vasquez, I don’t think you get it,” Hudson stated, “I’m staying here whether you want me to or not.” He stared ahead with resolve. “For as long as you’re going through this, I’m staying on this goddamn station.”


	3. Methods of Communication

Vasquez was glad to get back to the living quarters of the quarantine unit. The space itself was institutional and austere, not a place she would have ever thought could be considered comfortable, but it felt familiar now. 

She recognized that their confinement there had helped bring her and Hudson together; the forced downtime, though not by choice, had provided the opportunity to rest and recover, to sleep and grieve. And with nothing there to do—other than Hudson—it provided a space where the two of them had shamelessly turned to one another for comfort. 

But the space seemed different now that it was just the two of them. Staggeringly quiet and a bit surreal.

The emotionally difficult morning and the walk back had taken its toll. Her right leg throbbed and she felt a headache and a general feeling of unwellness as she struggled to untangle the strap of the duffel bag from her crutches. 

On the table, Hudson set down the bin he was carrying, grunting as he dropped the two heavy duffel bags from his shoulder to the floor. Then he turned and quickly helped Vasquez remove her own bag. He had located his favourite USCM cap in his locker room belongings and he wore it now, lifting it briefly to wipe the sweat from his forehead. When he returned it, he put it on backwards, some sweaty pieces of hair sticking through the hole at the front. 

“Bowens said they’d leave the key for you?” he asked, looking around. 

“Yeah,” said Vasquez, picking up a white box from the kitchen counter. She opened it, and a clear acrylic card sat within: the key for room C1038, the rental aboard Gateway Station where she would be living for the next several months—or at least for as long as USCM continued to foot the bill. “Here. Got it.”

“Good,” said Hudson and he watched her, scratched his arm above the cast and shifted his weight. “Guess I should head down to the rental office and see what they got left.”

“What?” Vasquez asked him in confusion and Hudson looked back at her quizzically.

“I’d get a separate unit, uh, right? Or…?”

“You really want to pay for rent up here? It would cost a fortune,” she replied.

Hudson gave a quick laugh, “I don’t _want_ to, I just didn't wanna assume that you’d want me to stay with you in your place.”

Vasquez could see that he was trying to tread carefully. She knew she had hurt him earlier in the locker room when she snapped at him, and again just moments ago when she tried to convince him not to stay. 

He stared at her innocently, his eyes sincere and stressed, his forehead creased and the indent above one eyebrow; that look he would get when he was worried. 

He could be so childlike sometimes, unable to keep his anxieties from getting the better of him. She knew that a lot was weighing on him, that he worried about her and it was an accumulation of stress that had caused him to be sick earlier in the locker room.

Vasquez moved closer to him and he was timid as he reached out and touched her arms. 

She sighed. “I want you to stay with me...” 

His brows raised a bit, and he watched her guardedly. “You do?” 

She nodded, but she looked down, trying to select her next words carefully.

“But..?” Hudson prompted, the worry returning to his face.

“But... What if all this goes horribly wrong and we drive each other crazy?”

“Then, at least we tried,” Hudson said with a shrug. 

He rubbed her arms and the warmth from his hands was something she didn’t know she needed until that moment. She felt chilled and achy and suddenly drained of energy. She gave a small, involuntary shiver.

“You cold?” he asked, tilting his head down so that he could better read her face.

“I’m okay,” she said instinctively, but it wasn’t the truth. 

Hudson’s hand had already swiftly moved to her forehead, a frown coming to his lips. “Fuck,” he said in dismay. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

“It’s nothing.”

She could feel the fever in her cheeks now and she knew Hudson had felt it from her forehead. Instantly, he was setting her crutches aside, helping her to sit atop the kitchen table to take the weight off her legs. He unzipped his hoodie and draped it around her shoulders and she probably should have cared that it might have had his vomit on it, but she didn’t. 

“Why are we _so shit_ at talking to one another?” he asked unhappily. Vasquez stayed quiet, taking his comments as rhetorical, but her silence only seemed to emphasize his point because after a moment he groaned and she could sense his frustration.

“We should head to the medical bay now,” he said adamantly. 

Vasquez felt a surge of nervousness. “I’m not scheduled until three,” she argued. 

“This could be serious, Vaz. I’m not takin’ chances.” 

“Well, what about moving into our new place?” she looked up at him, a hint of irony in her voice. 

A bit of warmth touched Hudson’s features amidst his anxious expression. “ _Our_ new place?” 

The eyes that held her gaze were filled with affection and she was reminded of the way he looked at her on the first night they had spent there. How she had gotten the sudden urge to kiss him when they were alone. How he had been so sweet, genuinely trying to console her, convince her she wasn’t responsible for Drake’s death. She remembered thinking, ‘what the hell,’ giving in to the feeling as she pressed her lips to his, right there at that table. 

“I’ll bring our things and sort out the place,” Hudson continued, “Unfortunately, the housewarming party’ll have to wait. But, come on, let’s get going. I’m worried about you.”

“Okay, okay,” she agreed. But she didn’t move from where she sat atop the table. 

She felt her face grow warm with heat, impossible to distinguish embarrassment from fever. She wiggled the toes on her right foot. The foot was numb but it still worked. She imagined waking up without that foot, without _half of her leg_. Maybe she had made a mistake. Maybe keeping the limb and accepting limited mobility had been the better option. Or, if this fever was an indicator of a spreading infection, what if she woke to find that they had taken the entire leg? What if she didn’t wake up from it at all?

Vasquez still had not moved from her seat. She felt paralyzed by apprehension, so completely overwhelmed that she didn’t even feel like herself. She felt weak and ashamed.

Hudson watched her. “Vasquez, you gotta talk to me.” His voice was pleading, filled with despair, almost a whisper.

“I’m… I’m fucking freaking out, Hudson,” she finally managed to say. 

He breathed a sound of sympathy and sat on the table beside her. He wrapped his arms around her securely, his chest against her back. “It’s okay. You have every right to be scared—I’m fuckin’ freaking out too.”

“What if I made a mistake?”

“You didn’t.”

“How do you know?”  
  
“Because I do, and _you didn’t._ ”

“Yesterday when I told you, you said—”

“I know, but I shouldn’t have. I knew you were right. It’s your best chance at a normal life.”

She nodded, grateful for his words. She let herself lean back against his chest, soaking up the warmth from his embrace, the soothing heat from his body alleviating her chill and easing some of her apprehensions. 

“Take all the time you need. We’ll go when you’re ready.”

. 

While the medical bay of the quarantine unit had been small and relatively calm, the main in-patient ward of Gateway Station, on the other hand, was a hive of activity. Prior to this, Vasquez had not really considered how the station’s expansive medical facilities served as a catch-all for the other colonies, and during the time they were seated in the waiting area, they had seen numerous cryopods being wheeled towards the assorted wards, as colonists in various stages of hypersleep reached their preferred surgical destination.

The thought actually made Vasquez feel more at ease as she sat on a waiting room chair next to Hudson, her legs draped across his lap. She was about to comment to him about it, but he looked impatient and irritated. 

The receptionist had told Hudson that she would contact Vasquez’s doctor and have someone bring over a gurney so she could lie down while they waited. But that had nearly been an hour ago. And as they sat on the uncomfortable waiting room chairs, medical staff continuing to whiz past, still no one stopped to talk to them and Hudson was getting increasingly agitated. His eyes were now fixated on a pair of orderlies on the other side of the waiting room and he glared at them as they audibly talked about their weekend, laughing as they stood next to an unoccupied gurney. 

Vasquez watched as Hudson chewed the inside of his cheek and the second he made a movement, she shook her head. “What are you going to do?” she asked him.

He was already gently lifting her legs so he could stand, carefully returning her feet to the place he had been sitting.

“Nothin’…” he said in an innocent tone, but his face already looked a bit guilty. “... I mean, nothin’ that’ll get us kicked out.”

“Get _us_ kicked out?” Vasquez challenged as he strode away from her, moving towards the free gurney, clearly trying to be stealthy. 

But his attempt at going unnoticed was spoiled as he strolled across the room with a ‘casual’ gait that appeared more surly than commonplace and he seemed to be unwittingly drawing more attention to himself. When he grabbed a hold of the gurney and tried to pull it away, the two orderlies stared at him. 

“What are you doing?” one of them asked Hudson with a sort of unimpressed curiosity as he watched Hudson pull at the gurney, which barely budged, appearing to be in a locked position. 

“Goddammit,” said Hudson, looking disappointed. “Look guys, can I grab this one? I need it for my friend so she can lie down.”

“You think you can just come up here and take a gurney?” retorted one of the orderlies with a laugh. 

At the confrontational tone, Vasquez could see Hudson’s brows instantly drop in aggravation, his mouth held tightly, his back up like a provoked bulldog.

“Wanna know what I think?” she heard Hudson say in a low voice, and from across the room, he pointed in her direction and the orderlies stared at her as she sat awkwardly sprawled across two of the waiting room chairs. “I think that there’s a patient over there who needs this more than your fuckin’ elbows do,” Hudson concluded. Then he successfully kicked off the wheel break and yanked it out from behind them. 

The two medical staff just watched Hudson in resignation as he commandeered the gurney, steering it towards Vasquez. Everyone in the waiting room was staring at them. 

By the time he had rolled the gurney up alongside her, an abashed smile had made its way onto his face. “Hey, look what I found! Can you believe this thing was just sittin’ there?” he said joking triumphantly as if she hadn’t just witnessed the entire exchange. 

Vasquez shook her head slowly. “Pendejo,” she said to him, but she laughed as he helped her on to the gurney and she laid back in relief. She still had his hoodie wrapped around her shoulders and he helped rearrange it now, spreading it over her upper body like a blanket. 

As if sensing she was cold, Hudson took a minute to rub her arms beneath the sweater, working some heat back into her muscles. Then, with a twinkle of mischief visible in his eye, he got behind the gurney again to push it. “So, where to, baby-cakes?” Hudson asked, and he had put on the accent of a twentieth century New York City cab driver. “ _Port, starboard_... the world is your oyster.”

She continued to shake her head at him, but for some reason she played along. “What’s good around here? I’m from… out of town,” she said lamely and together they laughed at how stupid they both sounded. 

“Well,” said Hudson, as the bad accent continued, wavering between Brooklyn and Boston as he slowly began to push the gurney. “There’s _starboard_ , see?—that’s the ‘stuffy’ part of town—nothin’ but a bunch of rich folks. Then there’s _port,_ which is, like, industrial but popular with the young kids _._ Or there’s _aft_. _”_

“Definitely not _aft,”_ joked Vasquez.

“‘Course not, it’s a shithole. That’s no place for a gal like you.”

She let out another laugh and leaned her head back so she could see his face, upside down but grinning as he navigated their surroundings. He looked more relaxed in that moment than he had all day and she realized that she, too, had temporarily forgotten about her fever and nervousness. 

“Forward,” said Vasquez, naming the remaining direction. His eyes looked down and he almost seemed surprised to see her looking up at him.

“Forward? he said in his own voice. “I mean”—the New Yorker accent returned— “ _Forward!_ Sure, sure. I know just the place. _”_

He did continue to push the gurney forward until they had reached the opposite side of the waiting room where a large window looked out into space. 

From where she was lying, she could just barely make out the top curve of the earth and she sat up a bit more so she could see the thin blue line of the planet’s atmosphere through the window. In the same view, a muted veil of green aurora borealis glowed visibly in contrast to the part of the world that was cloaked in darkness. And in those same darkened regions, openings in the clouds revealed the scattered orange glow of billions of accumulated lights, like beacons denoting the mark of human settlements.

“Say what you want about the service here, at least they got ocean views,” she said, a bit mesmerized by the grand perspective of the earth. Such a view never got old, no matter how often she saw it.

“One day, I’ll take you somewhere real,” said Hudson, his tone unexpectedly somber. "You know, like on a date.” 

Vasquez peeled her eyes away from the window and looked up at him. “How ‘bout that night we went out in Houston?” 

“That wasn’t a date,” Hudson replied. “When we were in Houston, we were just friends. We weren’t yet… we were still...” She watched him as he struggled for words. “You know what I mean, it didn’t count back then.” 

She raised her eyebrows at him teasingly, noticing how ruffled he seemed to be getting. 

Hudson locked the wheels of the gurney in place and sat up on the edge of the bed. “No, seriously, it’s only a date when both people acknowledge they might kinda, you know, sort of... _like_ one another… Going out somewhere in public together makes it official.”

“Wouldn’t that mean that _this_ is a date?” she asked lazily.

Hudson seemed more cautious, “I don’t know… do we kinda, sorta _like_ each other _?_ ” He was watching her carefully. 

Yesterday, a bit reluctantly, Vasquez had told Hudson that she cared about him. It was clear that he wanted to hear something of that nature again now—some further validation of the feelings she knew he had for her.

But today they were acting like two awkward teenagers. It was as if they hadn’t already spent the past couple nights intertwined, running their hands over one another, hot with passion as they came together, enough times now that she had lost track. Yet, the seemingly simple act of just saying something kind to him, _‘I like you’,_ felt inexplicably difficult.

“Pretty low bar if this is our first date,” she said instead, “I mean, considering what we’re here for. Think we might need a redo.”

“Definitely,” said Hudson with a laugh, but it sounded awkward, not genuine like his usual laughter. He looked uncomfortable, stress returning to his face again. “Um, I probably should have asked this earlier, but is there anyone you want me to contact to tell them you’re here? Any family? I mean, like, any extended family?” he clarified, aware that Vasquez’s parents had both died and she hadn’t seen her sister in over a decade now. 

‘No,” she said simply. 

He nodded, her response appearing to create more worry in his expression.

At that point, a doctor approached them. “Jenette Vasquez?” the doctor asked with a friendly smile and Vasquez nodded and returned her handshake. “Hi, I’m Doctor Haines, I’ll be performing your surgery today,” said the doctor, and she turned to Hudson with her hand out.

Hudson shook the surgeon’s hand vigorously. “She’s got a fever,” he blurted out. “Well, we didn’t have a thermometer, but it feels like she has a temperature and she’s cold. Is that bad? What does that mean?” he asked, bypassing any formality or opportunity for small talk. 

“Oh,” said Dr. Haines in response to the comment, and she turned a professional eye back to Vasquez. She held her tablet up in front of her and it was apparent she was gauging her stats from the screen. “A bit of a temperature, you’re right,” she confirmed. “Could just be due to a weakened immune system, but it could also indicate the beginning of an infection.”

Hudson stared at the surgeon with wide eyes. “So, what does that mean?” he asked again as the doctor was suddenly making swiping motions on her tablet.

“The fever itself shouldn’t pose too much of a risk as long as it stays low, but in case it is the result of an infection, we’re going to want to get ahead of it as quickly as possible,” she replied without looking up. “I’m moving her up so we can bring her in now.” 

The surgeon’s calm, matter-of-fact demeanor made Vasquez feel more at ease and she exhaled a breath. But beside her, Hudson was looking increasingly fearful. He watched Vasquez anxiously, his hands closing around her right foot, which was closest to where he was standing. He squeezed the foot and looked at her sadly. 

Just then, a nurse came up beside Dr. Haines, identifying herself as the one that would be admitting Vasquez and prepping her for surgery. Then, the nurse took control of the gurney and immediately they were on their way as she began wheeling it through the waiting area. Dr. Haines kept a swift pace beside them, still swiping on her tablet as she asked questions about Vasquez’s medical history and reviewed details of the upcoming procedure. Hudson had to almost jog beside them to keep up, trying unavailingly to stay out of the surgeon’s way, to keep a hand on Vasquez’s arm, as they moved through the bustling corridor. 

Then, the gurney stopped abruptly in front of a pair of heavy glass doors that restricted access to a long, white hallway. 

“Any questions before we take you in?” Haines asked Vasquez.

“Yeah.” Hudson piped up, his jaw tense as he addressed the surgeon. “You gonna take care of her in there?! You gonna do everything in your power to make sure she’s okay?” 

All eyes were on Hudson and Vasquez could tell that Haines was taking heed of his words because she looked back at him with sincerity. “Yes. I’m going to.”

Hudson nodded, his jaw releasing a bit of its tension. 

“I’m afraid you’ll have to say your goodbyes now, you can’t go further than this point,” the nurse prompted Hudson gently and he blinked back in acknowledgement. 

He moved in closer to Vasquez, staring down at her. His hand went to her face, his thumb making the slightest contact with her skin, brushing over her forehead and down one side of her cheek until his hand ultimately came to rest behind her ear, her hair between his fingers. “I’ll be waiting for you when you get out… Everything’s gonna work out. You’re gonna be fine.”

“Yeah,” she said, feeling the nervousness surge once again. Hudson leaned in and she gave him a couple friendly pats on the back as he kissed her softly on the cheek before pulling away. Then he faked a smile. 

“And Vaz? If you see a light… don’t fuckin’ go to it.”

She gave a laugh, “You’re an idiot.”

The large glass doors opened and as the nurse wheeled her through, Vasquez couldn’t help but look back at Hudson, standing in the middle of the corridor, staring back at her. Even as the doors began to close and there was a barrier of glass between them, Vasquez continued to crane her neck, watching as Hudson became smaller as the distance between them grew. 

She thought about the last words she said to him: _‘you’re an idiot’._ The words replayed in her mind. She knew there was a chance it could have been the last thing she ever said to him. 

Until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to her to say, ‘thank you’.

A sudden panicked feeling hit her; an urge to jump off the gurney and limp back to him. To redo their goodbye so that she could say something kinder and give him a proper hug. She could ask the nurse to turn around, she could probably convince her to. Still, she remained silent, just watching Hudson stare back at her from farther and farther away. 

Then, just like that, the hallway ended and the nurse turned the gurney around the corner. Her window of opportunity vanished as Hudson disappeared from sight.

.


	4. Making Accommodations

As the gurney disappeared around the corner, Hudson stood still, staring down the bleak hallway. He hadn’t expected Vasquez to look back, to lock eyes with him, seeming so vulnerable as the nurse wheeled her away in the direction of the operating rooms. 

Where he stood, people passed by him in a hurry, yet he was very aware of the fact that he was alone now. He turned to leave, a bit disoriented as he promptly walked into someone—an ambiguous shape in a medical uniform—and he quickly apologized without eye contact. 

He walked onward in a fog, struck by a sudden, overwhelming need to leave the hospital. 

It was the lighting, the din of background noise, the smell of the place. The combination conjured up memories that he preferred to forget, images and sounds surging back with startling detail.

Against his will, he was being transported back to the very worst moment of his childhood, to a time when he was ten years old and his mother’s body was lying motionless on a hospital bed. 

He was there with her now. 

His father wasn’t. He had left the room and Hudson could hear him yelling at a doctor or a nurse, his outrage ringing down the hall.

John, Hudson’s older brother, stood in the doorway crying. He called for Hudson, trying to coax him away from their mother’s body, yet remaining in one place by the door, as if afraid to come any closer. 

But Hudson knew to stay, aware that it was the last opportunity he would ever get to be near her. He pulled the limp shoulders firmly towards him, desperate for the rapid beat of his own heart to somehow revive hers. His father would be coming back soon and would surely drag him away, so for now, he would stay.

Her eyes were still slightly open. Her last breath echoed in his ears. There had been life within her minutes ago. Minutes. And just because there wasn’t anymore, just because his father and brother were feeling angry and scared, was he supposed to recoil and dismiss her motionless form? She was still his mother. 

He squeezed his eyes closed, tears falling, trying to shut out all of the yelling around him. He hugged the lifeless body, determined to do so until there was no longer warmth left in her skin. 

.

Hudson moved about the rooms of the quarantine living quarters, his mind in a haze, his body on autopilot as he gathered the few belongings they had accumulated from living there: a few Weyland-Yutani-branded articles of clothing, medications and toiletries, the deck of cards, and a weathered paperback novel he had found wedged between the couch cushions the previous day as Vasquez napped against him. He placed the items into the bin that also contained the whiskey, cigarettes and dirty posters from the locker room.

And there, on the kitchen counter, was something he hadn’t noticed earlier—a small stack of drawings that Newt had done in the same black permanent marker she had used on his cast. Hudson picked up the drawings now, dark markings on the white pages, the light shadow of text visible through the repurposed paper of a procedural manual.

‘To: Hudson, From: Newt’, read the first one, along with a fairly detailed drawing of what was clearly him in his combat gear, complete with helmet and raised pulse rifle and even what looked like a skull and crossbones on the correct side of his armour. Next to him, Newt had drawn herself, and off to the side, a spider-like creature, putting the whole scene into context: Hudson protecting Newt from the facehugger.

Hudson smiled, feeling a pang of sadness, missing Newt and her sweet, funny ways. 

The second picture had been similarly addressed to Vasquez, a couple attempts at the spelling of her name crossed out above the final result and, ‘Get well soon,’ in her writing. Underneath that was an illustration of Newt and Vasquez sitting side by side, Vasquez’s legs showing black and white stripes, which he assumed were bandages. 

But when Hudson flipped to the third and final picture, he let out an immediate laugh and murmured, “Aw, Newt.” 

A drawing of Hudson and Vasquez holding hands. Both of their names written above so that there was no mistaking it. Nothing got past Newt. 

Hudson carefully slipped the drawings into the bin, against one side where they wouldn’t get creased. He wished they were still there with him, but he knew that Hicks and Ripley had been eager to distance themselves from their recent hardships, to protect Newt and return to Earth where things felt different. Hudson understood the feeling. He had wanted to leave Gateway the second he woke from cryo. 

It was a hard feeling to describe but he imagined that it was similar to someone out at sea for a long period of time, craving the feeling of the solid earth beneath their feet. It would be a while before that became a reality now. 

He positioned the three duffel bags over his shoulders, spreading the weight across his back and he picked up the heavy bin. His body ached already, which was not a good sign; Residential Sector C was on the other side of the station. But he wasn’t about to make two trips, so he forced himself to suck it up and moved towards the door with grim persistence. 

Before he exited, Hudson took a moment to look back at the common room, remembering the quick kiss at the table that had escalated into a fit of passion, fervently making out with Vasquez as she straddled him on one of the dining chairs, then stumbling to her room together, twenty minutes of lust to satisfy long-awaited desires. 

That, in contrast to the day and night that followed it: carrying a sick Vaz in his arms and tucking her into bed, holding her that evening when they slept. And in the middle of the night, the sound of her voice using words that were soft and comforting, sex that wasn’t _just sex_ , and gestures so sweet he could scarcely believe he was sharing them with her. 

It had all felt suspiciously like love.

.

When he finally arrived at room C1038, Hudson nearly fell inside the door, duffels dropping to the polished tile floor. He set the storage bin of items on the table inside the door and collapsed into one of the two chairs that sat beneath it. It had been a mistake to try to manage it all in one trip. His ribs ached and his broken wrist throbbed and he worried that he had pulled some stitches. 

With an elbow on the table and his head in his hand, Hudson caught his breath, finally looking around the room at the place they would be staying. 

The room was small. Very small. Just like the rooms of the quarantine unit, this one was all about basic, utilitarian function—a place to eat and sleep, a small washroom with a shower, utterly basic furnishings and kitchenware. The budget room lacked windows and instead employed the use of ultraviolet light panels to simulate sunlight with customizable occupant controls. But even with the settings scheduled for ‘afternoon sun’, the space still felt dreary, as though the beige, panelled walls absorbed the light instead of reflecting it. 

And the bed… his eyes went to the dorm-style sleeping space with a mattress two-thirds the size of the ones they had on the Sulaco, barely large enough for Vasquez who would be recovering there, let alone the two of them. 

The Company had rented the space for Vasquez under the assumption that she would be there on her own, but now that he was tagging along, he would be taking up space in the room alongside her. Or at least he would be for as long as she permitted him to be there, and part of him knew that Vasquez’s patience with him would be short-lived if they were living on top of one another in such a small space. 

But it was what it was. He recognized that they were lucky to have been provided a room at all. So he stood up and began getting to work, unpacking their bags and putting clothes away, stowing the few non-clothing items they had within the integrated panelled storage spaces. 

Since it wasn’t his place to go through Drake’s stuff, he left Drake’s belongings packed within the duffel bag and tucked it into the small closet so Vasquez could go through it on a day when she was feeling up for it. 

Hudson recalled the pain of sorting through Dietrich’s belongings earlier that day. As heavy as it was seeing and touching those items, it was somehow better than not getting to experience any remaining connection to her at all. That had been a difficulty he experienced first-hand two years ago when he received the news that his fiancé, Louise, had died. Trapped on the Sulaco, he had been unable to go back to attend her funeral or comfort her family, so far removed from any piece of her. He longed for some reminder, something more than just a picture on a screen—something he could touch and hold. He yearned for that t-shirt she slept in, to press it to his face and absorb the last scent of her skin before it faded away forever. 

The thought lingered in his mind as he unpacked the storage bin and found a few things that had been in Drake’s locker—the personalized USCM cap, a few pictures of the crew from a night out, the chicken-bone necklace—so Hudson decided to display them for Vasquez, arranging the items carefully on the shelf beside the bed. Then, when he located a roll of medical tape they had been given for redressing their injuries, Hudson decided to use the tape to display Newt’s artwork on the wall. And once he had done that, he began to hang the assortment of racy locker posters, until the space around the bed had become a shrine to their friends, albeit an eclectic one.

The final item he pulled from the bin was the note that belonged to Vasquez. It was still folded, the soft paper still damp to the touch from the sterilization chemicals they used in decontamination. He held it in his hand as he considered what secrets it might hold and why it was so important to her. For the briefest of moments, he considered opening the note for the sole purpose of satisfying his curiosity, but ultimately he didn’t, and instead he placed it on the bedside table with the other things, hoping that one day she might tell him about it.

With his interior decorating complete, Hudson stood back to assess his work. It felt a bit odd to see Newt’s drawings next to Ferro’s centerfold of the oiled-up construction worker, but he supposed that it was all _art_ at the end of the day, and even if it brought the slightest smile to Vasquez’s face, then it would be worth it. 

The thought of Vasquez made his stomach churn with anxiety. He worried about the state she would be in when he brought her back to the room. For some reason, he couldn’t quite picture her recovering on the small bed, the same way he couldn’t quite picture himself being her main caregiver, walking her to the bathroom, helping her to bathe and change the dressings on her leg, acting as her main source of encouragement when things inevitably got tough. But as long as everything went well with her surgery, that was exactly what would need to happen.

Hudson changed his clothes and began mentally preparing himself to head back to the hospital.

. 

He knew she wouldn’t be out of surgery yet, but he made his way back to the medical wing of the station anyway, trepidation causing his stomach pains to act up again. It didn’t matter that he hated the feeling of being in a hospital setting, or that it brought back a flood of painful memories. His concern for Vasquez outweighed all of it. 

Hudson went straight to the recovery ward and waited at the front desk, arms braced around his stomach. 

“Uh, hi,” he said when a nurse looked up from behind a computer screen. “Just checking if Jenette Vasquez is out of surgery yet?”

The nurse scanned the screen in front of him, his fingers navigating the interface. “Vasquez…no. Looks like they’re still in the operating room.”

“Do you know how she’s doing?”

The nurse gave a little laugh. “No. They don’t send me updates mid-surgery.”

Hudson frowned. “Well, you can see her stats on that thing, right?” he asked impatiently, gesturing to the screen. It was something Dietrich had told him once, that every patient admitted to Gateway wore a bracelet that tracked their core temperature and heart rate, making it visible across the system; real-time patient analytics providing valuable alerts to staff if a patient in their vicinity was about to code. Even if Vasquez was still in surgery, her stats would be in the system. 

The nurse stared at him for a moment, a begrudging look beginning to form on his face. “Just a second,” he said. 

Hudson rapped his fingers silently on the counter. If he wasn’t able to see Vasquez, or get a description of how she was doing, then he wanted numbers. He wanted to know whether her fever was getting worse. At the very least, he wanted a confirmation that her heart was still beating.

But instead of the validation he was hoping for, the nurse looked up at Hudson with a question, “Mark Drake?” 

“What?” Hudson asked, staring back at him in surprise. 

“Are you Mark Drake?” the nurse asked again.

“No... William Hudson…” he replied, his voice trailing off a bit.

The nurse looked back at his screen. “Sorry,” he said, “I can’t give out information about patient stats to just _anybody_. It says here that Mark Drake is the emergency contact for Jenette.”

“Drake’s dead,” Hudson replied bluntly. 

The man nodded and seemed to be making a note, updating his records. “Second point of contact is a Colette Ferro?” 

“She’s dead too.” Hudson shook his head, the pain of loss resurfacing, burning in his chest. 

“Gunnery Sergeant Al Apo--”

“Dude! I’m the only one left, ok?” Hudson retorted, a tremor in his raised voice, his hands shaking in anger now. “And whoever else’s name you got on there, you can just assume they’re fuckin’ dead too! So you can go on and put my name down instead.” 

The nurse looked uncomfortable with his brashness, but reluctantly began typing nonetheless. “William...?”

“ _Hudson.”_

“Okay, and your relationship to the patient?” The man looked up at him questioningly and Hudson stared back, his mind a mess of grief and agitation, cycling through a variety of possible responses to the question as he tried to categorize his relationship with Vasquez, no existing label seeming to fit. Instead of attempting a normal response, Hudson again felt his frustration get the better of him.

“Can’t you just fuckin’ update me on how she’s doing, man?” Hudson snapped. “What else you need for your notes? My IQ? How many times we screwed? I’m the one here to look after her, make sure she’s okay, so whatever you wanna call that.” 

Hudson stood, agitated, his hands still shaking as the young man just stared at him with a look of disbelief. 

“So... _guard dog,_ ” said the nurse defiantly. “I think that’s what you call that.” 

He knew the nurse was testing him, maybe hoping Hudson would make a scene so he could alert security. Hudson’s anger was still mounting but he breathed a laugh in defeat, “Yeah sure man, whatever, sounds good.”

The nurse continued typing and Hudson tried to keep his cool, vaguely wondering what notes were being entered into the system. But then the young man gave a few taps on the screen and finally looked up.

“Her core temperature is 38.9 degrees Celsius… heart rate is 42 bpm.” 

Hudson felt his heart drop. “That’s still a high fever, right?” he asked hesitantly. “And 42 bpm”—he shook his head—“that’s too low.” His frustration and anger had all but evaporated and the only thing he felt now was worry. 

The nurse in front of him may have taken note of that because there was a hint of sympathy in his expression. “Look, I hate giving out stats because they’re misleading,” he said. “42 is normal if she’s still under anesthesia. And when she gets out of surgery, we can give her something to try to reduce the fever.”

Hudson gave a slight nod. 

“Just have a seat over there and when she gets out of surgery, I’ll let you know.” 

Hudson mumbled a ‘thanks’ and moved to one side of the room where he sat down in an uncomfortable chair, exhaled his stress and let his head rest against the wall behind him. 

.

Minutes dragged on, eventually compounding into hours. 

As time moved with agonizing slowness, he sat in discomfort and thought about hospitals. 

He had seen his fair share of them as a kid, not just the night his mother had died, but prior to that. After all, it hadn’t been the first time she had overdosed. Then, after losing his mother, it had been a regular occurrence for him or his brother to quietly slip out of the house to seek treatment for broken fingers, or dislocated shoulders, or to get stitches for things that had been thrown at them. He later recalled those years as his father’s ‘angry phase’.

Hudson thought about Louise, his beautiful bride-to-be, who died in a Dallas hospital of an unforeseen heart condition, twelve days after he had left on deployment. For five entire days after that, he remained asleep in cryo, unaware of her diagnosis, completely oblivious to the fact he had lost her.

Given all the medical advancements they had made throughout history: the imaging and automation and computational surgeries, artificial intelligence and the vast quantities of powerful medications… how could it be that two people he loved so dearly could have died in such a place? 

It was easy to say that he hated hospitals and mistrusted doctors. Dietrich, however, had been different. Before he even knew her well, she had noticed him struggling. Undeterred by his initial attempts to brush her off, the field medic did what she was best at: using her powers of stubbornness and empathy to help. And while she had essentially forced her way into his life, he had been thankful that she had; she became a friend to him at his darkest time, when his grief over losing Louise had been so intense that it nearly claimed his life. And then in the field, when one wrong move sent him to the ground in a barrage of bullets, Dietrich had saved his life for a second time, resuscitating him in the darkness as he bled out. 

Dietrich had died on LV-426. She had been attacked and dragged away from the rest of the crew. He had found her cocooned in the creature’s nest several hours later when he had been pulled down there himself, the grey alien parasite attached to her face. And while she had still technically been alive when he found her, he knew that, really, she was gone. Regardless, it was now his deepest regret that it had been he who had ended her life, pressing the muzzle of her own pistol to her temple in an attempt to end her suffering. He hadn’t even told Vasquez. 

A now-familiar contortion of the stomach. The worry and sadness at the thought of her name. Poor Vaz, having to lose her leg. After everything she had been through in her life, she didn’t deserve this. Over the past few days, it had become blatantly clear to him exactly how he felt about her. He could feel it now in the way his heart ached and the bottom of his stomach fell out when he thought about her, like the sudden, jarring descent of a dropship. 

And the more time that passed, the more he worried that something bad had happened to her. 

‘Please, not again,’ his mind begged, ‘Not this time. Not her.’ 

“William?”

His head snapped up and immediately he rose to his feet as if by the crack of a whip. 

“They're bringing her out now. Recovery room 270.”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone continuing to follow this story! 
> 
> In what seems to be becoming a regular occurrence for me, this chapter grew and grew into something long and complicated, so I decided to split it into two parts and save the remainder for the following chapter. So hopefully this doesn’t read too much like a 'filler' chapter and hoping it might help to develop some of the backstory. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading!!
> 
> A


	5. Positive Reinforcement

Hudson stopped in his tracks as he walked into the sterile room, pausing for just a second as the breath caught in his chest.

She looked small on the gurney, her eyes closed and her frame moving subtly beneath the loose-fitting hospital gown as she breathed. Beside her, a nurse was busy hanging an IV drip.

But as he moved in closer, his eyes inevitably scanned down towards the end of the bed where her right leg was bandaged below the knee, and then… nothing. It was strange to see, but mostly he was just glad to see _her._ See with his own eyes the small signs that indicated she was alive. 

He moved to her side, placed a hand on her arm, giving it a light squeeze, wondering if she might say something or open her eyes if she felt him there. But apart from the slow rhythm of quiet breaths, Vasquez remained still. Hudson touched the back of his fingers to her soft cheek, sensing the still-detectable fever and noticing that her expression appeared a bit stressed. A light thermal blanket lay folded up at the foot of the bed and he unfolded it and carefully began draping it over her, feeling a tinge of annoyance that no one had done that already. 

But as he brought the blanket up towards her chest, he noticed that one of Vasquez’s hands was smeared with blood and he looked up at the nurse in accusation.

“She was confused coming off of the anesthetic,” the nurse explained brusquely. “Pulled the IV right out of her own hand.” 

A new intravenous line had already been relocated to her arm and he held her bloodied hand in his as the nurse’s words registered. “She woke?” 

“Like a bat out of hell... She took a swing at me, you know. Almost knocked my lights out,” replied the nurse with a slight edge to her voice. She sifted through items in a supply cart before producing a bandage and a cotton swab, which she doused in antiseptic. “But they sedated her.” She hurriedly rubbed the cotton swab against the back of Vasquez’s hand, even as Hudson continued to hold the hand protectively. 

“I can do it,” he said.

The nurse didn’t need to be persuaded, seeming glad to hand the bandage over to Hudson. Then, she pointed to a red button at the side of the bed and said with emphasis, “If you need a hand when she wakes…” and left the room without another word. 

Hudson gazed at Vasquez’s face, her unsettled expression. It made him sad to think about her waking in a panic, feeling threatened and disoriented, switching into survival mode. 

“Always gotta put up a fight, don’t ya?” he asked her quietly, not expecting a response.

Of course it wasn’t her fault, the memories of their last mission were still fresh, affecting every thought and dream and making even the smallest experiences feel complex and raw. He suspected that no doctor there had bothered to consider her history, the fact that she had just undergone a traumatic event and had barely escaped with her life. They didn’t know her. They didn’t know what she had gone through. But he did, and he was there now to make sure she was being looked after properly.

He unwrapped the bandage, positioning it over the angry red mark on the top of her hand and pressing it gently in place. Then he brought her bandaged hand up to his lips and kissed it lightly. “Everything’s gonna be okay now,” he said to her. “I’m gonna look after you.”

.

It wasn’t like in the movies where someone sat serenely by a person’s bedside, waiting patiently for them to wake—things were noisy and chaotic in the recovery ward. Announcements to medical personnel sounding over the PA system, staff checking in via the monitoring screen that sat by Vasquez’s bed. Outside of her room, there were always voices talking loudly and the beeping of various pieces of equipment. At one point he had even heard screaming coming from a room down the hall.

The sounds grated on his nerves, wearing down his coping mechanisms, adding to the stress that had been churning the acids of his stomach, reigniting the ache and esophageal burn that had been bothering him all day. Or was that _yesterday_? Had he been there so long that _today_ was now _tomorrow_? He had no idea what time of day or night it was. 

Not that it mattered because medical staff came in around the clock. Every hour or so, a doctor or nurse would check Vasquez’s vitals and change the dressing on her leg, change out her IV bag, or introduce new medicines into the clear cocktail that fed into her veins. In between that, doctors would come in to announce a shift change and introduce themselves, and at least twice now, staff had brought in trays of food. It didn’t matter if Vasquez was asleep, they would still leave the food to sit next to her for several hours before they came back to take it away, untouched and uneaten.

The activity seemed to repeat on a loop, until Hudson had lost all concept of how long he had been there. He was exhausted, needed to lay down somewhere to sleep, but was not yet ready to let go of her hand. Longing to feel the twitch of her wakefulness in his grasp, not wanting to miss it.

A doctor appeared in front of him and Hudson’s vision snapped back into focus.

The doctor was already talking about something, and it took Hudson a moment to realize the topic of conversation was instructions for Vasquez’s physiotherapy regimen. Hudson stared at the doctor in confusion. “She’s sleeping,” he said dimly.

The doctor, a middle-aged man with greying hair, studied Hudson as if he had just said something incredibly absurd.

“I can see that,” the doctor responded slowly. “But when she wakes, she’ll need to start strengthening the muscles right away to avoid atrophy. The sooner the better.” And when Hudson likely still appeared bewildered, the doctor gave him another quizzical look. “I’m sorry, who are you? I thought you were her partner…”

“I—I’m,” Hudson stuttered. 

The truth was that Hudson didn’t know what he was. 

“I’ll tell her when she wakes up.”

After the doctor left, Hudson went over the instructions in his head— _sitting at the side of the bed, extension of the knee, moving the foot on the other leg… something about deep breathing?—_ and he realized he could only remember half of the things he had been told.

Hudson felt dazed as the absurdity of the circumstances hit him: Vasquez had scarcely even allowed him to stay here with her and now he was the one being given instructions for her care. He could barely take care of himself, how would he be able to take care of her?

He felt alone. So incredibly alone that it made him weary. It seemed like only days earlier that he had been with the rest of the crew, fifteen of them in the mess hall of the Sulaco, laughing and sharing a meal together. Now, it was only him and Vasquez in this place, and here she was, lying in a bed with half her leg gone.

Hudson slumped in his chair, his head in his hand. 

“You alright, dear?” came a sudden voice and Hudson looked up to see an older nurse with a warm smile and a Southern accent, standing in the doorway staring back at him.

“Yeah,” Hudson answered, rubbing his face. 

But the nurse seemed unconvinced and she walked over to him sympathetically. She looked to be more than twice his age, short and a bit stout, exuding warmth and compassion. “You wanna talk about it?” she asked him.

He shook his head, but when he looked back at her face, there was something about her that made him feel comfortable. Maybe it was her appearance, or the Southern accent, but she reminded him of Louise’s mother, Valerie, his would-have-been mother-in-law. Instantly, Hudson felt like he could talk to her. 

“I dunno what I’m doing,” he blurted out. “I can’t even remember simple instructions from the doctor. I just feel like I’m gonna screw everything up. I don’t even know if we’re _together_ —if I’m her friend or her _boyfriend_ —whether I’m here because I love her or ‘cause she’s all I got left.”

He suddenly felt ashamed of his words and he hoped there was no way Vasquez could hear him in her sleep.

The nurse nodded understandingly and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Do you care about her, honey?” she asked.

“Well yeah, of course I do,” Hudson answered hoarsely and he looked at Vasquez on the bed.

“Then that’s all she needs right now. All that other stuff don’t matter.”

Hudson nodded.

“Course, you’re here and I’ve been told you’ve barely let go of her hand she got out of surgery—if that ain’t love, I don’t know what is.” She chuckled joyfully.

Hudson stared at Vasquez with concern. “She’s just been out for so long. Does it usually take this long for them to wake up?”

“Sometimes,” said the nurse. “But the sleep is good for her. You could probably use some of that too, you know. Relax, honey, her stats look fine.”

. 

Hudson was somewhere between the realms of sleep and wakefulness when he felt movement grazing his palm. 

Vasquez was moving, shifting in the bed, seeming a bit restless. 

Hudson immediately felt awake, his heart racing as he sat poised at the edge of his chair next to the bed. “Come on, Vaz,” he said to her. “Just open your eyes.” 

More movement as he stroked her forehead and cheek. 

“Vaz?” he said, hopefully.

“ _Dónde estoy_?” came her groggy voice, her eyes still closed. 

His Spanish was limited, but he knew that one. The question raised alarm bells in his mind.

“You’re in the hospital, remember? You’re okay. Everything’s okay.”

Her eyelashes began to flutter and he saw her dark brown eyes, unfocused and distant.

“Vasquez?”

She seemed disoriented as she scanned the room. Then her eyes fell on him and she looked at him pleadingly. “Where is Carmen?” she asked him, her face fraught with concern.

“Carmen? You mean, your sister?” Hudson asked, puzzled. All at once, he realized the strength of the medication she was on. “Uh, she just stepped out,” Hudson lied quickly, hoping to ease her apprehension. “She’s fine. She wanted you to get some sleep.”

“They found her?” asked Vasquez, the concern on her face changing to a look of sadness as her brow quivered. Her eyes closed, and he was surprised to see tears slipping down her cheeks. 

“Vaz?”

“I fucked everything up,” she said, ragged breaths turning into quiet sobs. He had never seen her cry before.

Witnessing her sadness made emotion rise in his throat, and he wiped the tears off her cheeks as they fell. “Don’t worry. Everything’s okay, I promise,” he pleaded, hoping she would believe him.

At his touch, Vasquez looked at him in confusion, and a new worry came over Hudson.

“Vaz... Do you know who I am?” he asked her softly.

She was silent for a moment, but then she said, “Hudson,” tears continuing to slide down her cheeks. He wondered if she even knew that she was still crying.

He nodded and leaned in, kissing her cheeks, feeling her tears on his lips, trying to make her pain go away. He wanted to hug her tightly, pull her in close, but between the tubes and wires and her fragile appearance, he was afraid. He worried about disturbing the IV going to her arm or the lines connecting her to the heart rate monitor. Carefully, Hudson wrapped his arms around the tops of her shoulders, his fingers finding the skin of her upper arm through one of the large sleeve holes of her hospital gown. He held his lips to her cheek until she went a bit limp in his embrace, and the only indicator that she was still awake was the feeling of her eyelashes brushing against his cheek. 

Hudson pulled away, looking down at her expression, innocent and childlike with confusion. He wondered if she was becoming more aware of what was going on or whether it was the opposite.

“How do you feel?” he asked her cautiously. 

“Tired,” she said. Her eyes closed for several seconds before opening again.

“Just rest then,” Hudson said to her. While he knew she needed sleep in order to recover, a part of him selfishly wanted her to stay awake so he could be with her. “You don’t have to worry about anything, you can sleep now.”

Vasquez’s eyes were already closed, but she managed to say, “Come’ere,” and she weakly pulled his hand towards her, indicating that she wanted him to come closer again.

Hudson smiled sadly as Vasquez put her arms around him and nuzzled his cheek. 

“I love you,” she said.

Hudson gently broke away from her and looked at her face in surprise. He knew what he had heard, and as much as he liked the sound of the words coming from her mouth, this was not Vasquez. He knew it was the drugs talking, not her. He gave a little laugh, thinking about how mortified she would be if she knew what she was saying.

He smiled at her fondly. “Okay. Close your eyes now, get some rest. You’ll feel more like yourself when you wake up again.”

Vasquez’s eyelids drooped as she brushed her cheek against the pillow and exhaled a sound of comfort. He kissed her forehead but she was already breathing deeply again, asleep.

.

Hudson was sitting stiffly in the chair, feeling the residual shock of Vasquez’s words, when the nurse that reminded him of Valerie Carlisle stopped again in the doorway. In her hands was a cafeteria tray.

“Thought I’d bring you something before ending my shift,” she said, bringing the tray forward and setting it on the table beside Hudson. It held a cup of coffee, a glass of water, a wrapped sandwich and energy bar. “Now, this is for you. I don’t want to come by later and find it uneaten.”

Hudson sat up straighter, touched by the thoughtful gesture. “Hey! Thanks a lot,” he said sincerely. 

“So I gotta ask,” said the nurse with her hands on her hips. “Where is God’s name did you get one of _those_?” She pointed at his cast. “I did a plaster cast in med school _once,_ haven’t seen one since!”

Hudson gave a laugh. “I got it here on Gateway, believe it or not,” he replied. “The quarantine unit. I guess they’re set up with just the basics there.” 

“Seriously?” asked the nurse and her eyes widened. “Wait, you weren’t one of the marines from the Sulaco? I heard about that in the media.” She looked at Vasquez, recognition sweeping her face as her suspicions were confirmed. Until that point, Hudson hadn’t given much thought to the fact that their pictures were probably currently plastered throughout the mediasphere, their catastrophic failure on LV-426 newsworthy, even if many of the finer details were withheld from the public. 

Hudson took a sip of the coffee and it tasted weak and bitter, of _hospital coffee,_ but still he nodded at the nurse obligingly and said, “Good coffee.”

She gave him a warm smile. “You know, if you come by the clinic in Medical Wing B on Thursday, I can replace it with a fiber-form cast.”

Hudson gave a hasty glance at his itchy orthopedic cast, the black marker drawing of their short-lived ‘family of five’ that Newt had done. He would be sad to lose her artwork, but the thought of letting his arm breathe, being able to scratch the constantly itching skin beneath the hardened plaster sounded heavenly. 

“Thursday? Yeah that’d be great.”

“Just ask for me, Trudy, and we’ll see if we can get that arm back into the twenty-second century.” 

“Thanks Trudy, that would be awesome.” Hudson held out his hand. “I’m Will Hudson, by the way.” 

Trudy gave his hand a firm shake and turned to Vasquez. “So this must be... Private Vasquez then? I’ve been following your stories, but I didn’t expect you folks to be here still _.”_

“The others went back to Earth. Vaz and I are the only ones here. We stayed… for this.” 

. . .

The bed was hard and it squeaked as he moved his position, the skin on his arms sticking to the stiff cushion; plastic fabric made to look like leather. The bed sat in a small, windowless room—the place where kids would go when they felt sick. It also doubled as the school’s supply closet and a dirty bucket sat nearby with a mop in it and he wondered how many kids had thrown up in there. 

Hudson had laid there with stomach aches before, sometimes relishing the fact that he got to miss class. But this time, he was feeling worse than normal. It was his head that throbbed, the swollen lip and stiff jaw from a fight he had instigated. The kids had been two grades older than him. 

As he laid on the hard bed, Hudson stared up at the door. It was open a crack, a prism of yellow light coming into the dark room from the school’s main hallway. Every time someone passed on the other side of the door, it would cause a break in the light and he would get a start of nervousness. 

His father was on his way to get him. He would be there any moment. 

He would be angry. Hudson wondered if he would save his fury for when they got home, or whether he would be so mad that he would go off at Hudson right there in the school. Or the car ride home. 

Lately, his father had begun drinking more during the day. The call from the school would have likely woken him from the stupor Hudson and his brother usually found him in each day when they got home. 

Usually after school, John would make sure they were careful not to wake their father for fear of his mood. They would fend for themselves, make dinner and do homework. But even after all of their efforts, eventually their father would wake and take his frustrations out on them. Unfairly, it was usually John who would bear the brunt of it. 

There was a sudden absence of light and Hudson looked up in fear. A looming shadow lingered in the doorway. But as the door opened further and more light entered his eyes, Hudson could see that it was not his father at all, but his brother.

“Heard they beat the shit outta you,” said John.

“I fucked up Fender’s nose pretty good,” Hudson replied indignantly through his fat lip. He had expected his brother to laugh at that, but he didn’t. 

“Come on, Billy. Get your shit, let’s go.” 

Hudson stood and grabbed his backpack. “They said Dad was coming to get me.”

John shot him a quick warning glance as the office supervisor, Mrs. Anton walked by the door and gave John a quizzical look. 

“Hurry it up, Dad’s waiting in the car!” John said loudly as they walked away quickly, still sensing they were under Anton’s skeptical gaze. Hudson knew by John’s tone that he was lying. 

As expected, once outside the school, John led them away from the parking lot, and instead, they crossed the street to begin the route home on foot. 

“You are some lucky punk that I picked up that call, not Dad,” said John, his hand messing up Hudson’s hair. “If he had to come down here to get you he would have lost it.” 

“I know. Thanks John,” said Hudson sheepishly. He looked up at his older brother who was now fourteen years old and in his first year of high school. It was only at that moment that he noticed how tall John had gotten. “So they actually thought it was Dad on the phone?” 

“Yeah,” John laughed, and he put on a deep voice that exuded maturity, “Thank you for informing me. My apologies for the trouble, I’m on my way now.”

They both laughed.

“So fuckin’ gullible.”

Their laughter faded, but then John gave him a serious look. “What the fuck were you thinking picking a fight like that, you dumb shit? Jesus, Billy, do you think I don’t see how you’ve been acting lately?” 

“How?” Hudson asked with a frown.

“You’re so angry. I know you are. You’re purposely trying to start shit at school. And at home... you’re not careful with what you say to Dad. You think letting your anger out will make you feel better, but it just makes things worse.”

“Whatever, let him come after me. I’m not afraid of Dad.”

John stopped in his tracks and grabbed Hudson’s arms forcefully. “Don’t! Don’t be so fucking childish. This is real, okay? I’m not messing around here!” 

Hudson stared at his brother, surprised by his intensity. 

“You gotta take responsibility for your actions. No more shit like this, nothing that’ll irk the old man. Promise? You gotta do your part. We gotta have each other’s backs in this, okay? 

. . .

Something was not right. 

Hudson opened his eyes. 

Vasquez was breathing heavily. Wheezing. 

“Vasquez?” he asked in confusion, standing, looking over her, trying to figure out what was happening. 

She was gasping now, barely able to breath. 

Vasquez!” He jostled her arm but she was like a rag doll moving in his grasp. Fear overwhelmed him as he pressed the red button. 

A siren sounded, and a face appeared on the monitor, asking a question. 

“We need help in here!” yelled Hudson, and his mind raced to remember his first aid training, tracking her pulse, poised to start CPR at the first sign of cardiac arrest.

Just then, a doctor quickly entered with a cart and Hudson could see it contained an oxygen tank and defibrillator system. It was the same doctor that had left Hudson with the instructions for Vasquez’s recovery. 

“Move!” said the doctor and Hudson stepped aside as the man pulled out an oxygen mask and held it to Vasquez’s face. 

But just as he did so, her eyes shot open at the feeling of something being put over her mouth, her arms coming up in panic, trying to push the doctor away. 

“Vaz!” Hudson tried to intervene, but the doctor yelled at him to step back. Unnerved, Hudson watched as the doctor continued to try to wrestle the mask onto Vasquez’s face, holding down her arms as she lashed out in desperation. 

Hudson snapped. 

“Give her some space, goddammit!” Hudson yelled, pushing the doctor roughly aside. Boldly, he grabbed the oxygen mask out of the doctor’s hands, the man staring back at him in shock. Hudson ignored him.

He put his hand softly on Vasquez’s cheek and her brown eyes blinked back at him as she struggled to breathe. “It’s okay Vaz, it’s just a bit of air,” and he stroked her hair calmingly, showing her the oxygen mask. She let him bring it closer, and he gently placed the mask over her mouth and nose. She took in large breaths of oxygen.

It took several minutes for her breathing to return to normal, but when it did, her demeanor seemed more calm.

He still felt the glare of the doctor, who was now standing back from the bed, watching Hudson carry out the task, reluctantly allowing him to continue. After a couple more minutes, the doctor held out his hand, and Hudson carefully took the oxygen mask away from Vasquez’s face and gave it back to the doctor.

“You pull something like that again and I’m calling security,” he said to Hudson sternly, then he exited the room with the cart.

And when Hudson looked down at Vasquez, as she breathed on her own, there was lucidity in her eyes and a slight amusement as she stared back at him. Never had he been so happy to see those deep brown eyes.

“Morning sweetie pie,” Hudson said to her, gauging her coherency.

Vasquez winced at his words and Hudson took it as a good sign. She uttered something in a raspy voice and he leaned in towards her. “Swear’ll kill you,” she murmured, but he could see her cheeks raise slightly, her eyes squint on her tired face in the suggestion of a smile. But then it faded, and in a barely audible voice she asked, “Did they do it?”

“Yeah,” he replied and Vasquez let out a breath of acknowledgement. “But everything went well, you’re gonna be okay now,” Hudson reassured her. 

Her eyes gazed back at him sincerely. “Thanks for being here, Hudson.”

The words resonated and seemed to calm his worried heart. For the first time in what felt like ages, he believed what he had been telling her: that everything now might actually _be okay_. 

Hudson beamed at her and gave a shrug. “They got no bedside manner in this place.”

“They’re gonna kick you out.”

“Let ‘em try,” he responded heartily. There was no way he was going to let anyone pull him away from her side. 

.

“You asked about your sister,” he said.

Vasquez paused. “Shit,” she said, looking nervous. “I did? What else did I say?”

“That was about it,” said Hudson, deciding to spare her the embarrassment of the truth for now. “But you were worried about her… Hey, do you want me to try to track her down for you? Maybe she should know that you’re here.”

“I’ve tried, I’ve never been able to find her. She would have changed her name...” She shook her head. 

He nodded, knowing that it must be hard for her. He knew the feeling; he hadn’t seen his brother since John walked out of the house at age sixteen and never returned. A couple years later, Hudson had heard a rumour that John had been incarcerated on charges of drug possession, but he had never been able to track him down. It was hard not knowing. But after a while, he had grown more accustomed to his brother’s absence in his life. It was only recently that he had really begun thinking about him again. 

Hudson took the time to relay to Vasquez all of the information he had been given by the doctors. He racked his brain, bumbling through his interpretation of the instructions for the physiotherapy exercises and aftercare regimens, uncertain in his delivery, like a bad link in the game of ‘telephone’.

So he was relieved when the next doctor to come in was Dr. Haines, Vasquez’s surgeon. Hudson trusted her more than the other doctors and luckily, she was able to fill in some of the blanks and give Vasquez the accurate information herself. It was also encouraging when she seemed happy with Vasquez’s incision, her heart rate and other measures of her current condition. 

“Good, Jenette. You’re looking much more alert,” said Haines. “I think you’re ready to start moving around, so I’m going to go ahead and remove your IV and catheter.” 

As Dr. Haines nonchalantly lifted the bed covers and Vasquez’s gown, Hudson turned away respectfully so that he wouldn’t see anything she might not want him to. He watched Vasquez as her face grew a bit red and he squeezed her hand, unfazed.

Vasquez rolled her eyes. “How’s this for a first date?” 

“I feel very close to you right now,” Hudson joked and he was happy when she laughed at that.

The doctor finished what she was doing and looked back at them, having overheard their exchange. “Sorry, I just assumed you two were together, the way he’s been sitting by your bedside.”

Hudson remained silent, his turn to feel a bit embarrassed.

“We are,” Vasquez said plainly, looking back at the doctor and then a bit bashfully at Hudson. He smiled, pleasantly surprised by her response.

Dr. Haines nodded and she updated Vasquez’s electronic chart before leaving.

“It’s like the staff here have never seen an awkward, undefined relationship before,” said Hudson when she had gone.

“How long have you been here?” Vasquez asked him, clearly considering Haines’ comment about Hudson waiting by her bedside. “Have you gone back to the room at all?”

Hudson shook his head. “I don’t trust the people here. I didn’t want to leave you alone with them.”

Vasquez looked at him in dismay. “Go, get some sleep, take a shower, man,” she said with a laugh and pushed him playfully away from her, but her hand lingered on his arm, seeming reluctant to let go. Her voice was softer when she spoke next, “You must be exhausted, please, go home and get some rest.”

It occurred to him that she had used the word ‘home’, referring to their room that they were about to share together. Then, she pulled him back towards her and when he leaned in, she kissed him on the lips. 

It was a good kiss. The really deep kind that, until now, seemed reserved for their moments in bed or just before it, solely existing as an accompaniment to sex. Now, here was such a kiss on its own, and it felt surprising coming from her. It made him wonder if maybe there had been some truth behind the drug-induced words she had spoken earlier. 

When they parted, she paused with her eyes closed serenely, her hand resting on his chest, as if trying to prolong the feeling. “‘Kay. Now you can go.”

Hudson smiled at her. “Okay. Are you gonna be alright, though? What if you need something?”

“There’s enough people around this place, I’ll manage. You’ve done enough for me already.” 

He gave her another quick kiss and they said ‘goodnight’ to one another without having any real concept of what time of day or night it actually was. 

Hudson was just turning to leave when, on a whim, he added mischievously, “You know, there was actually something else that you said while you were drugged.”

“Oh yeah? What?” asked Vasquez with visible apprehension.

“You told me you loved me,” Hudson replied honestly.

Vasquez’s face dropped and she looked back at him in shock. But then, a second later, she began laughing. “You fucking liar. Get out of here,” she said, shaking her head at him amiably.

He grinned, having gotten the response he had expected.


End file.
